UC-NRLF 


SB    E73    ITS 


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CD 


GIFT  OF 


SPRAYS  OF 
WESTERN  PINE 

By  G.  N.  LOWE 


SAN   FRANCISCO 

H.  S.  CROCKER  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1916 
BY   G.  N.  LOWE 

BERKELEY,  GAL. 


This  little  volume  is  lovingly  dedicated  to 
Memories. 

Memories  of  redwood  and  manzanita;  memories 
of  the  dawn  on  far-flung  summits ;  memories  of  the 
mountains  of  magic  robed  in  the  silver  splendor  of 
a  summer  moon. 

Of  Californian  hillsides  resplendent  with  the 
poppy's  cloth  of  gold. 

Of  mountain  meadows,  exulting  rivers,  and  chant 
ing  waterfalls. 

Of  kindly  faces  that  were  brightened  by  the 
camp-fire's  ruddy  glow. 

Of  loving  hearts  that  were — of  loving  hearts  that 
are — in  the  cities  by  the  Golden  Gate. 

G.  N.  LOWE. 


348856 


CONTENTS 

Page  No. 

Dedication iii 

Invitation 1 

Evening  in  Yosemite 2 

Memories 4 

The  Praise  of  Michael  Angelo 6 

Vernal  Gorge 7 

Homeward  Bound 8 

The  Quest 9 

Hands 10 

Beside  an  Open  Grave H 

Yosemite 13 

By  the  Western  Gate 15 

Two  Pictures 16 

Life 18 

Come,  Let  Us  Away 20 

Shasta 22 

On  Leaving  Yosemite 23 

A  Broken  Troth 24 

A  Familiar  Face 29 

As  I  Would  Meet  Him 30 

El  Capitan 32 

The  First  Rain 33 

Le  Conte 35 

Sierra  Nevada 36 


CONTENTS' -Continued 


Page  No. 

Dawn 38 

An  Idyl 39 

The  Boy 40 

"If  a  Man  Die ?" 41 

A  Ring .  44 

Faith 45 

Astronomy 46 

Commemoration  Day 47 

Arcady 55 

Sunset  Land 57 

War 62 

A  Boy  and  a  Girl 64 

Unanswered 66 

Where  Friends  Keep  Watch  68 


SPRAYS  OF  WESTERN  PINE 


INVITATION 

I  bid  you  not  on  tongues  of  larks  to  dine, 
Nor  hearts  of  nightingales.    Lucullan  fare 
Is  not  upon  my  board;  and  golden-ware 
Is  marked  but  by  its  absence.    Still,  the  wine 
I  trust  may  please  your  palate.    It  is  mine — 
Pressed  from  the  grapes  I  gathered  in  the  rare 
September  days.    Yes,  yes,  'tis  homely  fare 
You'll  find  within  my  cot  beneath  the  pine. 

Yet  still  I  trust  when  your  repast  is  made, 
You  may  have  found  refreshment,  and  the  way 
You  journey  may  to  you  have  brighter  grown. 
Come,  rest  a  while  beneath  the  pinetree's  shade, 
And  should  the  spread  give  pleasure,  then,  I  say, 
Your  pleasure  will  be  mingled  with  mine  own. 


[i] 


EVENING  IN  YOSEMITE 

With  sunset  fires  the  sky  still  glows. 
The  great  peaks  blush  with  rosy  light, 
And  vanish  slowly  as  the  night 
Steals  over  the  eternal  snows. 

Where  the  deep  purple  shadows  fall, 
Yosemite's  pale  column  gleams; 
The  South  Dome's  evening  altar  beams; 
The  tears  of  Time  stain  every  wall. 

A  cedar  holds  a  sheltering  arm 
Above  the  camp-fire's  dancing  light; 
While  wafting  upward  through  the  night 
Comes  Vernal's  everlasting  psalm. 

Spring  witnessed  here  but  yestermorn 
The  nuptials  of  the  sun  and  snow; 
In  gold  and  white  they  met,  and  lo! 
The  lilies  of  the  vale  were  born. 

Down  where  the  crystal  rivers  gleam, 
The  night  hath  spread  her  sable  folds; 
The  day's  last  dying  splendor  holds 
On  heights  where  winter  reigns  supreme. 

The  mountain  sky  of  holy  blue 

Grows  splendid  with  familiar  stars; 

The  great  moon  sends  her  silver  bars 

To  pierce  the  gray  crags  through  and  through. 

In  reverence  the  tall  pines  stand, 
The  glacial  river  laughs  and  sings, 
And  solitude,  with  dusky  wings, 
Broods  over  all  the  mountain  land. 

[2] 


O  mountains,  lend  to  me  your  peace! 
Still  shall  your  domes  in  beauty  soar, 
When  I  may  worship  here  no  more — 
When  labor,  love,  and  life  shall  cease. 

Serene  on  God's  wide  garment  hem — 
A  great  contentment  fills  my  breast 
As  under  your  pure  light  I  rest — 
O  stars  that  beamed  on  Bethlehem! 


[3] 


MEMORIES 

Fair  Fancy  waves  her  magic  wand — 
In  the  winter  fire  I  see 
The  glories  of  thy  cliffs  and  falls — 
Yosemite. 

Stands  there  thy  Captain,  strong  and  grand, 
Guarding  thy  western  gate; 
Po-ho-no  waves  her  gauzy  scarf 
Where  rainbows  wait. 

There  lift  the  grey  Cathedral  Spires 
Dwarfing  all  works  of  man; 
No  chimes  profane,  there  are  no  choirs 
But  pipes  of  Pan. 

Colossal,  calm,  full-panoplied — 
He  keeps  his  vigil  well — 
Hoar  watcher  of  the  southern  lines, 
The  Sentinel. 

On  yon  grey  crag  an  eagle  plays 
And  circles  with  his  mate, 
Where  evening's  great,  high  altars  burn 
Immaculate. 

When  yon  great  dome  was  split  in  twain, 
What  Titan  lost  his  crown — 
What  god  fell  from  his  high  estate — 
What  creed  went  down? 

Wooed  by  the  sun,  the  virgin  snow 
Yields  to  his  warm  embrace; 
From  far,  white  peaks  the  streams  begin 
Their  matchless  race. 

[4] 


Nevada — O  impetuous  youth! 
Born  of  the  granite  grey; 
Hearing  his  kindred  shout  below 
With  them  would  play. 

Vernal,  to  hide  her  naked  breast, 
A  diamond  drapery  flings; 
And  through  the  stately  centuries 
Her  anthem  sings. 

Betimes  it  all  but  overwhelms, 
The  city's  sordid  fret; 
Yet  memory's  glance  sees  now  and  then 
Illilouette. 

Kind  as  the  eyes  of  Jesus  there 
Heaven's  arching  splendor  smiles, 
Where  Merced's  liquid  lyrics  run 
Through  Happy  Isles. 

And  over  all  the  imperial  sun 
Traileth  his  mantle's  gold; 
Till  evening  weaves  a  velvet  fringe 
For  every  fold. 

When  lips  would  praise  thee,  lips  are  dumb. 
There  is  no  pen  to  write; 
No  brush  yet  made  may  paint  thy  face — 
Goodnight — goodnight. 


[5] 


THE  PRAISE  OF  MICHAEL  ANGELO 

A  sculptor  in  old  Venice  long  ago 
In  marble  shaped  a  statue,  so  divine 
In  concept,  that  he  said,  "This  work  of  mine 
Shall  win  the  praise  of  Michael  Angelo." 
The  master  came,  and,  searchingly  and  slow, 
His  keen  eyes  marked  each  curvature  and  line, 
The  god-like  pose,  the  draperies  traced  so  fine, 
"It  lacks  one  thing,"  he  murmured  soft  and  low. 

Years  passed,  and  then  the  gentle,  soothing  hand 
Of  death  was  laid  upon  that  sculptor's  brow; 
But  ere  he  passed  he  called  unto  his  bed 
Great  Angelo,  and  from  the  borderland 
Said,  "Tell,  I  pray,  what  lacks  my  statue  now?" 
"It  lacks  the  gift  of  speech,"  the  master  said. 


[6] 


VERNAL  GORGE 

(A  Memory) 

Amber  dawn,  and  skies  of  splendor, 
Vagrant  winds  with  tales  so  tender, 
And  a  lifting  of  the  soul  to  where  the  great  white 

mountains  be; 

Cascades  leap  from  heights  appalling, 
And  I  hear  them  calling,  calling— 
0,  faithless  in  the  city's  streets  thou  comest  not  to 
me! 


[7] 


HOMEWARD  BOUND 

I  sail  across  conflicting  seas, 
Dark,  fog-girt,  and  profound; 

Hope  leadeth  me  and  bears  me  on, 
And  I  am  homeward  bound. 

The  night  is  long,  and  drear,  and  dark, 

And  darker  seas  arise; 
But  on  the  tempest's  wrathful  breath 

My  home-bound  pennant  flies. 

I  know  not  when  the  mist  may  lift 
Its  grey  wings  from  the  sea; 

Somewhere  before  I  know  there  lies 
Safe  anchorage  for  me. 

I  know  not  when  on  even  keel 
Shall  ride  my  storm-tossed  bark; 

Sometime  I  know  the  call,  "All's  well" — 
Will  echo  through  the  dark. 

Sometime  upon  mine  ears  shall  fall 
The  welcome  cry  of  "Land!" 

And  on  my  worn  and  wave-washed  deck 
My  Pilot  soon  will  stand. 

Sometime  these  veiling  mists  will  fade, 

And  then  across  the  foam — 
Across  the  troubled,  breaking  bar, 

Will  gleam  the  lights  of  home. 

And  He,  who  knows  the  sea  I  sail, 

Will  take  me  by  the  hand; 
And  smiling  on  my  battered  ship 

Will  lead  me  safe  to  land. 

[8] 


THE  QUEST 

Dear  Heart,  I  lately  passed  beneath  the  pines — 
The  stately  pines — the  pines  that  sigh  and  sing. 
I  climbed  great  mountains  where  the  west  winds 

bring 

Faint  odors  from  the  vale  of  wheat  and  vines, 
In  search  of  peace. 

I  stood  where  solemn  lines 
Of  great  Sierras  rise;  and  torrents  fling 
Mad  music  to  the  crags  where  cedars  cling, 
Above  old  Ophir's  wealth  of  yellow  mines; 
But  could  not  see  her  face. 

And  then  I  stood 

Where  Merced,  boasting  of  its  awful  leap 
Down  the  great  cliffs  of  lone  Yosemite — 
Eager  to  join  old  Joaquin's  tawny  flood — 
Sang,  as  it  passed  me  by  a  bouldered  steep : — 
Beyond  the  Hills  of  Time  she  waits  for  thee. 


[9] 


HANDS 

Tiny  hands,  baby  hands, 
Snowflakes  on  the  counterpane, 
Kissed  and  cradled,  kissed  again; 
Pretty,  dimpled,  baby  hands. 

Brown  hands,  roguish  hands, 
Full  of  mischief  all  the  while; 
Full  of  mischief,  free  from  guile, 
O  Boy,  0  Boy,  with  brown  hands ! 

White  hands,  maiden's  hands 
Clasp  the  fingers  masculine; 
Clasp,  and  cling,  and  intertwine, 
0  snowy  hands  and  brown  hands ! 

Strong  hands,  willing  hands, 
Eager  now  to  carve  a  name 
On  the  granite  wall  of  fame — 
O,  how  changed  the  baby  hands! 

Tired  hands,  trembling  hands, 
Hands  that  weary  of  the  fray; 
Hands  that  wait  the  close  of  day — 
Feeble,  calloused,  wrinkled  hands. 

Pale  hands,  quiet  hands, 
Folded  on  a  placid  breast; 
After  labor  cometh  rest — 
Rest  for  all  the  weary  hands. 

Kind  hands,  widow's  hands, 
Roses  on  a  coffin  laid, 
Nature's  law  must  be  obeyed — 
Cover  them,  poor,  worn-out  hands. 

[10] 


BESIDE  AN  OPEN  GRAVE 

Once  more,  from  out  the  void,  the  soothing  hand 
Hath  reached  to  point  how  fleet  is  human  breath; 

We  mortals  dream,  but  do  not  understand 
The  great,  eternal  round  of  life  and  death. 

Is  death  the  door  to  everlasting  life — 

The  night  of  earth  the  dawn  of  regal  day — 

The  tomb's  embrace  the  end  of  care  and  strife? 
No  soul  returns,  no  mortal  lips  may  say. 

No  mortal  eyes  have  seen  the  Living  God — 
The  Shepherd  kind  who  careth  for  his  sheep — 

But  often  falls  the  unrelenting  rod; 

And  always  children  wail  and  widows  weep. 

The  Power  that  holds  each  planet  in  its  course, 
And  sends  the  tender  shoot  up  through  the  mould, 

The  Wondrous  Fact — the  Universal  Force 

That  finite  minds  can  neither  grasp  nor  hold — 

This  great,  unchanging  and  mysterious  Power, 
Is  deaf  to  raving  curse  or  fervent  prayer — 

What  lies  beyond  earth's  brief,  tumultuous  hour? 
I  do  not  know — I  do  not  even  care. 

These  man-made  creeds  that  filled  with  bloody  strife 
The  flying  years,  and  stirred  up  hate  and  wrong — 

These  are  but  boulders  in  the  stream  of  life 
Which  pauses,  then  resistless  sweeps  along. 

I  cannot  stay  the  honest  doubts  that  now 
Sweep  o'er  my  soul  in  ever-swelling  tide; 

But  I  would  see  the  blood-drops  on  His  brow, 

And  touch,  with  pitying  hand,  His  wounded  side. 

[ii] 


Beyond  the  centuries'  slowly  brightening  skies — 
When  pagan  myths  and  Christian  tales  be  past — 

Truth,  winged  with  light,  triumphant  shall  arise; 
And  lead  mankind  up  to  the  Day  at  last. 

I  will  not  mourn.    The  friend  who  died  today 
Hath  trod  the  path  my  footsteps  soon  must  trace. 

What  though  my  tears  moved  not  his  features  grey? 
I  saw  the  calm  contentment  on  his  face. 

I  will  not  weep.    He  would  not  have  it  so, 
For  he  so  often  sought  to  make  me  smile; 

But  I  will  gird  my  loins  and  onward  go, 
And  bear  my  burden  yet  a  little  while. 

I  do  not  fear.    Why  should  I  fear  this  death? 

Tis  but  a  link  in  the  eternal  chain — 
A  pause — perchance  to  gain  a  stronger  breath — 

To  rise  in  some  new  shape  and  toil  again. 

I  will  not  shrink.    I  did  not  shrink  when  life 
Came  unto  me  with  all  its  care  and  pain; 

Nor  will  I  shrink  when  death  shall  end  the  strife, 
And  touch  with  sleep  my  weary  eyes  again. 

When  to  its  close  shall  draw  my  earthly  span — 
When  toward  the  western  rim  descends  my  sun — 

Then  would  I  owe  no  gold  to  any  man, 
And  I  would  leave  no  duty  here  undone. 

Yet  though  I  grope  and  do  not  understand, 

Though  in  the  dark  I  dwell — unknowing — blind — 

Athwart  my  soul  comes  almost  in  command: — 
Unto  thy  fellow-man  thou  may'st  be  kind. 


[12] 


YOSEMITE 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  splendors  of  the  temple  of 
the  king, 

I  saw  the  milk-white  banners  from  the  mighty  tran 
septs  fling; 

I  saw  the  weary  pilgrims  walk,  in  reverence,  the 
aisles, 

Forgetting  all  the  dusty  trails,  and  all  the  mountain 
miles. 

0  valley  of  sublimity!  soul-weary,  worn  and  spent, 

1  found  amid  thy  holy  isles  full  measure  of  content. 
I  love  thy  domes  and  crags  where  clouds,  in  many 

a  rolling  fleece, 

Their  benedictions  shed  on  me  and  lend  to  me  their 
peace. 

Drugged  by  the  balsam  of  thy  pines,  lulled  by  thy 
chanting  falls, 

Waked  to  a  dawn  of  blue  and  gold  by  lilting  mad 
rigals — 

Yea!  even  I  would  sound  thy  praise,  though  but  a 
human  clod — 

Thou  epic  writ  in  granite  by  the  Master-Author — 
God! 

And  thou,  O  mighty  buttress,  0  thou  stern  El  Capi- 

tan! 
With   rugged   scarp   and   battlement   untouched  by 

puny  man; 
Thou   standest   in   thy    grandeur    as   the    ages    roll 

along — 
Fit  emblem  of  Eternity,  colossal,  calm,  and  strong. 

[13] 


Farewell,  farewell,  O  matchless  Vale,  farewell,  ye 
granite  walls! 

Where  they  who  came  to  conquer  rest  content  to  be 
thy  thralls; 

And  thou,  0  stream  of  mercy,  on  thine  angel  errand 
bent, 

I  drink  once  more  thine  elixir,  depart  in  peace,  con 
tent. 


[14 


BY  THE  WESTERN  GATE 

Now,  chastened  by  the  mighty  mother,  Earth, 
Core  of  my  heart!   Thou  sittest  by  the  gate, 
Bereft  and  mourning;  woeful,  desolate — 
Rent  by  the  pains  that  presage  grander  birth. 
Where  Joy  once  laughed  now  waileth  Grief,  and 

Dearth 

Sits  on  thy  knees,  0  Queen,  dethroned,  distrait — 
Yet  still  the  many-cargoed  galleons  wait 
Thy  swinging  portals,  and  thy  coming  mirth. 
Be  not  afraid,  Queen  of  the  Sunset  Seas! 
Thy  loins  be  fruitful,  and  thy  sons  be  strong. 
Though  cosmic  fingers  grip  thy  radiant  face, 
Thou  feeder  of  the  nations;  every  breeze 
Is  redolent  of  roses.    Sing  thy  song, 
And  build  a  braver  home  and  market-place. 

—April  18,  1906. 


[15] 


TWO  PICTURES 

I  stood  upon  a  mountain  slope 

And  looked  to  the  west  away; 
And  I  saw  an  artist  painting 

Where  the  sunset  colors  play; 
A  strange  and  beautiful  picture, 

And  it  filled  my  soul  with  awe; 
And  made  me  think  of  peace  more  pure 

Than  a  mortal  ever  saw. 

And  a  little,  timid  streamlet, 

Scant  of  flood  was  creeping  by; 
As  though  it  feared  to  mar  the  rest 

Of  the  poppies  sleeping  nigh; 
While  a  brown,  belated  song-bird 

Passed  me,  scolding,  to  its  nest; 
And  the  mountain  slopes  grew  darker, 

As  the  sun  sank  in  the  west. 

"Paint  me  the  face  of  an  angel," 

I  cried  to  the  artist  then; 
And  it  seemed  a  flood  of  glory 

From  the  skies  swept  down  the  glen. 
Then,  behold!  a  noble  picture 

Was  shown  to  my  wondering  eyes — 
The  face  of  my  sainted  mother, 

And  she  dwells  in  Paradise. 

Then  the  valley  donned  night's  shadows, 

Though  the  peak  was  still  aglow; 
And  the  ships  came  slowly  sailing 

Where  the  waters  ebb  and  flow; 
And  the  moon  rose  o'er  the  mountain, 

While  the  winds  blew  wild  and  free; 
And  the  great  picture  sank  beneath 

The  rim  of  the  western  sea. 

[16] 


"Paint  me  the  face  of  a  sinner," 

And  a  darker  shadow  swept 
Adown  the  mountain's  rugged  slopes, 

And  I  thought  the  artist  wept. 
Then,  alas!  another  picture 

On  the  crimson  sky  was  shown — 
The  sad,  pale  face  of  a  sinner, 

And  I  knew  it  for  my  own. 


The  great  peak  donned  the  shadows  then, 
And  the  streamlet  sobbed  with  me, 

While  the  vision  slowly  sank  beneath 
The  rim  of  the  western  sea. 


[17] 


LIFE 

To  me  the  gift  of  Life  is  passing  fair. 
At  dawn  She  greets  me,  amber  in  her  hair, 
And  dew,  like  gems,  upon  her  garments.    Life, 
Who  would  not  labor  having  thee  to  wife! 

And  She  hath  borne  me  children.    Joy,  for  one, 

Lightens  my  toil  from  dawn  till  day  is  done; 

And  Peace  lies  down  with  me  when  night  hath  spread 

Her  star-splashed  curtain  o'er  my  restful  bed. 

And  Plenty  waits  upon  my  humble  board, 

Day  after  day,  with  little  left  to  hoard, 

Or  mildew,  rust,  or  bring  forth  later  strife; 

Thrice  blest  am  I  with  such  a  spouse  as  Life. 

And  She  hath  blest  me  with  the  gift  of  sight, 

So  these  are  mine:   The  snow-clad  mountain  height, 

The  ocean's  flowing  purple,  and  the  sheen 

Of  lilies  on  the  mountain  meadows  green. 

The  flash  of  crystal  where  the  cascade  springs, 

The  touch  of  pearl  upon  a  sea-gull's  wings, 

The  gems  that  lie  half  hidden  in  the  rose, 

The  fleeting  crimson  of  Sierran  snows, 

The  light  that  shines  in  one  loved  comrade's  eyes — 

Than  these  no  greater  gifts  hath  Paradise. 

And  She  hath  given  other  gifts  to  me — 
Beauty  I  hear  as  well  as  beauty  see, 
So  these  are  mine :   The  earth's  great  harmonies, 
Vespers  of  birds,  the  anthem  of  the  seas; 
The  pipes  of  Pan  in  every  ribboned  dell; 
The  organ  that  the  pinetrees  play  so  well. 
The  twittering  of  the  swallows  'neath  the  eaves, 
And  rustling  of  the  painted  autumn  leaves. 

[18] 


The  drowsy  hum  of  golden-mantled  bees, 
And  whispered  secrets  of  the  morning  breeze. 
Music  of  little  voices  by  the  door — 
Patter  of  tiny  footsteps  on  the  floor — 
Lowing  of  kine  by  moss-grown  pasture  bars — 
Are  greater  joys  than  these  beyond  the  stars? 

Ah,  Life  hath  given  many  gifts  to  me! 

So  these  are  mine:   The  touch  upon  my  knee 

Of  baby  fingers,  hands  that  clasp  my  own 

In  love  and  friendship.    Incense  I  have  known 

Of  mignonette  and  myrtle,  and  the  rose, 

And  scent  of  every  lovely  flower  that  grows. 

I  shared  with  singing  birds  the  joys  of  dawn, 

And  drank  from  streams  that  in  the  snows  were  born. 

Dear  Life,  I  loved  thee  well  with  every  breath, 

And  thou  hast  bred  in  me  no  fear  of  death! 


[19 


GOME,  LET  US  AWAY 

I  dream  of  a  camp  in  the  mountains, 
A  fire  that  burned  ruddy  and  bright, 

A  river  that  sang 

As  downward  it  sprang, 
And  a  firmament  flooded  with  light — 
With  the  mellow  moon's  radiant  light. 

O,  the  heart  grows  tired  of  the  city, 
And  the  strident  whirl  of  its  ways, 

The  toil  and  the  strife, 

The  wear  of  its  life, 
And  the  unending  care  of  its  days — 
0,  the  sordid,  dull  round  of  its  days! 

Come,  let  us  away  to  the  mountains, 
Where  torrents  rush  down  to  the  sea, 

Where  meadows  are  green, 

And  tall  cedars  lean 
To  the  kiss  of  the  wind  blowing  free — 
To  the  wind  blowing  gentle  and  free. 

Come,  let  us  away  to  the  valley, 
Where  crags  lift  up  splendid  and  high, 

The  breath  of  the  pine 

Stirs  the  blood  like  wine, 
And  the  heart  knoweth  never  a  sigh — 
Where  the  heart  hath  no  time  for  a  sigh. 

Come,  let  us  away  to  the  river, 
Where  it  gallops  adown  the  glen, 

The  current  is  strong, 

The  rollicking  song, 

Brings  the  morning  of  life  back  again — 
Brings  the  dew-sprinkled  morning  again, 

[20] 


Away  from  the  voice  of  the  city, 
And  the  raucous  note  in  its  tones, 

The  clash  of  the  wheel, 

The  clanging  of  steel, 
And  the  stumbling  feet  on  the  stones — 
O,  the  poor,  weary  feet  on  the  stones! 

0,  Night,  and  the  wind-shaken  cedars! 
O,  Sleep,  calm  and  dreamless,  at  last! 

0,  Death!  shall  my  quest 

Find  the  long-sought  rest, 
When  the  day  and  the  journey  be  past — 
When  my  life  and  its  labor  be  past? 


[21] 


SHASTA 

Alone  in  all  his  majesty  he  stands, 

Cowled  with  grey  mist,  cloaked  with  wind-tortured 

pines, 

And  counts  the  growing  wealth  of  wheat  and  vines 
Filling  the  hollows  of  his  mighty  hands. 
Hail,  hoary  sentry  of  the  sunset  lands! 
From  thy  great  peak  we  view  the  gleaming  lines 
Of  snow-crowned  summits,  on  the  far  confines 
Of  thy  broad  foot-stool,  fringed  with  golden  strands. 
But  more  than  all  we  feel  the  softening  balm 
Of  thy  vast  solitudes,  the  peace,  the  rest 
That  finds  a  place  upon  thy  high-flung  sod; 
Thy  morning's  glory,  and  thy  evening's  calm, 
Beget  a  great  forgiveness  in  the  breast — 
Thy  storm-scarred  shoulders  lift  the  soul  to  God. 


[22] 


ON  LEAVING  YOSEMITE 

Here,  on  the  rim,  where  clustered  hemlocks  lean, 
I  pause  for  one  last  look  upon  thy  walls; 
I  hear  the  mighty  music  of  thy  falls 
Proclaiming  to  the  world  that  thou  art  Queen. 

What  Titans  fought  where  now  smile  meadows  green? 
What  gods  waged  warfare  in  thy  granite  halls? 
Who  were  the  victors — who  became  the  thralls? 
What  awful  sum  of  ages  hast  thou  seen? 

O,  let  me  gaze  again,  Yosemite! 
A  yearning  and  a  sadness  fill  my  soul. 
I  see  thy  stream  of  mercy  onward  roll, 
And  hear  the  chanting  of  its  threnody. 

So  Adam  and  his  mate,  with  shaded  eyes, 
Turned  one  last,  yearning  look  on  Paradise. 


[23] 


A  BROKEN  TROTH 

I  stand  where  great  Sierras  rise 

Robed  in  supernal  white, 

And  see  the  years  pass  like  a  dream 

Dreamed  in  the  hush  of  night. 

I  see  a  miner's  lonely  grave 

And,  cut  deep  in  the  pine, 

Is,  "Rob  McLeod,  passed  in  his  checks, 

November,  fifty-nine." 

Where  Mono's  mighty  mountains  lift  their  everlast 
ing  snows; 

Where  down  a  dim,  unfathomed  gorge,  a  stripling 
river  flows; 

Where,  to  the  wandering  west  wind,  the  cedar  and 
the  pine, 

Still  tell,  with  nodding  forelocks,  the  tales  of  "Forty 
Nine," 

Still  tell,  with  many  whisperings,  the  tales  of  by 
gone  years 

When,  through  the  slumbering  canyons,  came  the 
rugged  pioneers; 

Came,  and  with  pick  and  cradle,  the  centuries'  silence 
broke, 

And  she,  the  Queen  that  slept  so  long,  great  Cali 
fornia  woke. 

Twas  there  one  summer  morning  that  a  wanderer's 

footsteps  led, 
Where  the  young,  snow-born  river  leaped  adown  its 

rocky  bed, 
And  oak  and  manzanita  crooned  a  song  from  canyon 

walls, 

[24] 


Commingling  with  the  anthems  of  the  mighty  water 
falls. 

A  stone's  throw  from  the  river  there  stood  four  giant 
pines — 

They  stood  four-square,  and  held  within  their  rugged, 
close  confines 

Four  walls  of  rough-hewn  cedar  logs — a  cabin  rude 
and  bare — 

And  many  years  had  come  and  gone  since  footsteps 
echoed  there. 

And  many  snows  had  fallen  on  the  old  and  moss- 
grown  roof 

Since  that  deep  glen  had  answered  to  a  voice,  or 
ringing  hoof, 

And  many  cities  reared  their  walls  on  California's 
plains — 

All  silent  when  the  pioneers  first  bled  her  yellow 
veins — 

And  many  wild  and  reckless  souls  had  found  eter 
nal  peace 

Beneath  the  red  madronos  where  they  sought  the 
golden  fleece. 

The  wanderer  paused  and  rested  while  he  gazed 
around  the  glen, 

And  hearkened  to  the  river's  chant,  the  cascade's 
deep  amen, 

Then  slowly  to  the  ancient  hut  he  bent  his  wayworn 
feet, 

And  passed  into  its  cool  repose  from  out  the  noon 
day  heat. 

A  little  lizard  ran  across  the  old  decaying  floor 

To  where  a  squirrel,  wise  and  grey,  had  piled  his 
winter  store; 

And  on  the  rough  logs  of  the  walls  a  dim  and  ghostly 
row 

[25] 


Of  garments  hung,  cut  in  the  style  of  forty  years 
ago. 

An  ancient  pick  beneath  a  cot,  a  mattock  by  the 
door 

Long  fallen  from  its  rusty  hinge,  and  on  the  creak 
ing  floor 

A  pile  of  old  newspapers  lay — a  thrifty  wood-rat's 
lair— 

The  "Press"  of  good  old  Glasgow  town,  the  "Sen 
tinel"  of  Ayr, 

And  San  Francisco's  "Chronicle"  with  news  of  by 
gone  days — 

The  wanderer  bore  them  where  the  light  might  aid 
his  eager  gaze — 

And  scanning  closely,  one  by  one,  there  fell  beneath 
his  view 

A  yellow  letter,  creased  and  torn,  and  dated  "Sixty- 
two." 

With  trembling  hands  he  opened  it,  with  reverence 
and  awe 

Began  to  read  the  ancient  screed,  and  this  is  what 
he  saw: 

"Dear  Rob,"  the  letter  ran,  "  Tis  long  since  we  have 

heard  from  you, 
Long  since  the  good  ship  sailed  away  across  the 

waters  blue; 
Long  since  you  broke  the  silver  coin  beneath  our 

trysting  tree — 
One  half  you  know  you  kept  yourself,  the  other  gave 

to  me — 
And  night  by  night  my  weary  heart  lies  dreaming 

of  the  past, 
And  day  by  day  I  fondly  say,  'He'll  come  to  me  at 

last!' 

[26] 


The  throstle's  nest  is  in  the  bush  beside  our  cottage 

door, 
The  hedge  is  full  of  roses,  lad,  as  in  the  days  of 

yore; 
And  Rover  listens  for  your  step  while  far  away  you 

roam, 
And  I — I  scarcely  see  to  write — O,  Rob,  dear  lad, 

come  home. 
Maxwelton's  braes  are  bonny  still  where  falls  the 

early  dew, 
And  all  we  lack  to  fill  joy's  cup  is  you,  dear  heart, 

is  you. 
Come  home  from  that  far  distant  land  beyond  the 

western  sea, 
Come  home  to  Annie  Laurie  who  in  Scotia  waits  for 

thee." 

\ 

0  pioneer  of  olden  time  with  iron  heart  and  limb, 
Who  journeyed,  ever  westward,  when  the  trails  were 

new  and  diml 
0  men  who  stormed  the  frowning  heights,  and  trod 

the  virgin  snows, 
And  planted  vine  and  fig-tree  where  the  manzanita 

grows ! 
Who  built  a  mighty  city  by  the  tide-ripped  Golden 

Gate, 

And  sculptured  from  a  lonely  land  a  great  and  sov 
ereign  state. 

0  hopes  and  castles  that  were  built  in  days  of  forty- 
nine! 
Forgotten    graves,    and   unsung   dead,    beneath    the 

grieving  pine, 

[27] 


What  grey-haired  mothers  watched  in  vain  beside 

an  old-world  door — 
What  Annie  Lauries  waited  for  the  lads  that  came 

no  more! 

The  great  tears  dimmed  the  wanderer's  eyes  and,  as 

he  pondered  there, 
A  breath  of  Scottish  heather  seemed  to  fill  the  cabin 

bare; 
The  cascade  in  the  canyon  hushed  its  thunderous 

amen; 
And  strains  of  "Annie  Laurie"  seemed  to  float  adown 

the  glen. 
And  thus  he  mused  as  slowly  he  passed  up  the  boul- 

dered  steep — 
All  joy  to  living  pioneers,  and  peace  to  them  that 

sleep ! 


[28] 


A  FAMILIAR  FACE 

The  grey-beard  spake:    "Lol    Change  has  touched 
the  years, 

And  filled  yon  quiet  city  of  the  dead. 

In  peace  I  soon  shall  rest  my  weary  head, 
And,  empty  handed,  leave  these  toils  and  fears. 
None  know  me  now,  so  seamed  with  time  and  tears; 

Yet,  though  familiar  faces  long  have  sped, 

Hope  gleameth  through  the  lattice  by  my  bed — 
And  Nature's  face  my  world-worn  spirit  cheers. 

Majestic  Mother!    Ever  in  thy  prime. 

Though  earth  grow  old  and  weary  in  her  flight, 
Still  gleam  thy  suns  bevond  great  Algol's  clime; 

Still;  through  the  dark,  burns  Vega's  beacon  light. 
And  changeless,  to  the  eyes  of  fleeting  time, 

Orion  swings  his  belt  athwart  the  night. 


AS  I  WOULD  MEET  HIM 

Not  in  a  blood-red  mist  of  sweat  and  pain 

Would  I  meet  Death.    Not  after  I  had  lain 

On  torture's  couch.    Not  in  dread  earthquake  shock. 

I  would  not  meet  him  jesting,  nor  with  mock 

And  frippery  of  words.    And  not  in  fear 

Of  greater  sorrows  there  than  bowed  me  here. 

I  would  not  look  on  Death  as  on  a  thief, 

But,  passive  as  a  falling  autumn  leaf, 

Would  hail  him  as  a  friend  from  out  the  deep, 

Who  brought  to  me  the  priceless  boon  of  sleep. 

Glad  as  a  toiler  who,  his  work  well  done, 

Sees  in  the  west  the  slow-descending  sun. 

Fearing  no  God  whose  vengeance,  dire  and  deep, 

Would  turn  to  hell  Death's  calm  and  dreamless  sleep. 

But  glad  as  he  who,  grown  aweary,  sees 

The  home  light  shining  through  the  orchard  trees. 

I  would  meet  Death  ere  yet  from  me  has  fled 
The  strength  of  arm  to  win  my  daily  bread; 
Before  mine  eyes  grow  dim,  my  pulses  slow, 
Before  the  winter  winds  begin  to  blow. 
Before  I  bow  beneath  the  weight  of  years, 
While  holding  still  the  hope  that  lifts  and  cheers 
That,  in  the  purple  distances  I  see, 
Great  peaks  will  hold  a  realm  of  peace  for  me. 

I  would  meet  Death  ere  yet  from  me  have  gone 

The  faces  that  I  love  to  look  upon. 

Before  the  ring  is  broken  where  I  see 

Dear  eyes  that  look  so  trustingly  to  me. 

Dear  lips  from  where  so  blithsomely  there  fell 

The  old-time  songs  that  I  have  loved  so  well. 

[30] 


And  dear,  white  hands,  whose  mission  is  to  bless — 

So  kind,  so  deft,  so  fitted  to  caress — 

Thus,  by  a  ring  of  loving  faces  blest, 

I  would  meet  Death  and  take  his  gift  of  rest. 

I  would  meet  Death  on  some  grand  mountain  height, 
Where  snow-clad  peaks  and  forests  met  my  sight. 
Where  full-mouthed  falls  their  anthems  lifted  high, 
Where  winds  might  kiss  me  as  they  passed  me  by. 
Where,  far  and  high,  above  the  cares  of  men, 
Mine  eyes  might  feast,  my  feet  find  rest  again. 
Where  blue-eyed  flowers  looked  upward  from  the 

sod, 

I'd  kneel  and  kiss  the  wide-flung  robes  of  God. 
Where  snows  might  drift  and  gently  cover  o'er 
The  empty  house  which  once  my  spirit  bore. 
Where  brave  old  pines  their  lulling  vigils  keep, 
I'd  draw  my  mantle  round  me  and  would  sleep. 


[31] 


EL  GAPITAN 

When  wearied  with  the  sins  of  man, 
God  rests  on  old  El  Capitan. 
And  gazing  on  the  cliffs  He  made — 
The  cataracts — the  sylvan  glade — 
The  glories  of  each  ribboned  glen — 
Forgiveness  falls  from  Him  again. 


[32] 


THE  FIRST  RAIN 

There  is  music  in  the  canyon, 
There  is  gladness  there  today; 
Such  a  laughing  and  a  prattling 
From  the  little  baby  stream; 
The  great,  majestic  mountains 
Don  their  cowls  of  sober  grey; 
And  the  Great  Mother  moves  in  sleep, 
With  promise  in  her  dream. 
Hand  in  hand,  and  dancing, 
Gome  the  glad  waters,  glancing 
Where  fickle  shafts  of  sunlight 
Through  the  Spanish  mosses  gleam. 

There  is  music  in  the  canyon, 
On  the  laurel's  glossy  leaves 
The  rain  comes  pitter-patter 
With  a  gentle,  lulling  sound; 
And  old  Nature's  busy  shuttle 
A  varied  pattern  weaves, 
Where  little  runlets  wander 
O'er  the  thirsty,  sun-baked  ground. 
A  little  wind  sweeps  over 
With  a  subtle  scent  of  clover, 
And  a  hint  of  little  secrets 
That  were  in  its  journey  found. 

There  is  music  in  the  wheatland 

Where  the  autumn  stubble  lies; 

And  laughter  where  the  little  stream 

Its  greater  kinsman  joins; 

Such  joy  and  jubilation 

In  the  bounty  from  tbe  skies. 

'  33] 


Which  cools  the  breast  of  brown  old  earth 

And  laves  her  dusty  groins. 

And  she  thrills  with  passion's  fire, 
And  she  throbs  with  great  desire, 

To  release  the  life  renascent 

In  the  deepness  of  her  loins. 

Ah!  the  music  in  the  canyon 
Finds  in  yearning  hearts  today 
An  echo  in  the  symphonies 
That  deep  and  dormant  lie; 
For  the  sky  which  seemeth  grieving, 
The  mountains  mourning  grey, 
Are  the  segments  of  the  promise 
Of  a  harvest  by-and-by. 

Like  the  prisoned  life  in  earth 

Shall  my  soul  renew  its  birth, 
Rise  to  Love  and  Youth  immortal 
Though  Death  croons  a  lullaby? 


[34] 


LE-CONTE 

(Died  in  Yosemite) 

A  deeper  shadow  fell  athwart  the  day. 
The  pulsing  wire  a  message  flashed,  we  knew 
His  gentle  voice  had  ceased — that  from  our  view 
The  bowed  yet  stately  form  had  passed  away. 

Great  mountains  donned  their  cowls  of  mourning 

grey. 

Vast  redwoods  moaned  a  dirge  to  troubled  streams. 
A  noble  soul  had  left  a  world  of  dreams. 
Earth's  sombre  dusk  gave  place  to  glorious  day. 

Grand — as  the  cliffs  thy  white  soul  loved  so  well. 
Kind — as  the  south  wind  to  the  velvet  sod. 
Pure — as  the  snows  that  feed  the  mountain  dell — 
Le-Conte,  thy  soul  hath  gone  direct  to  God. 

Yet,  though  thou  walk'st  in  perfect  day  with  Him, 
The  light  thou  kindled  here  shall  never  dim. 


[35] 


SIERRA  NEVADA 

They  watch  and  guard  the  sleeping  dells 
Where  ice-born  torrents  flow; 

A  myriad  granite  sentinels 

Helmed  and  cuirassed  with  snow. 

Crowned  with  a  thousand  years  of  drift, 

Domed  by  a  sapphire  sky, 
Magnificent  Sierras  lift 

Where  earth-weaned  eagles  fly. 

A  million  more  fantastic  frets 

Than  artist  ever  drew — 
Great  battlements  and  minarets, 

Etched  on  the  matchless  blue. 

How  pure  the  light  on  yonder  peaks 

Immaculate  and  white, 
Where  morning's  blush  in  crimson  breaks 

Close  on  the  skirts  of  night! 

Yon  glacial  torrent's  deep,  hoarse  lute, 

Its  upward  music  flings; 
The  great,  eternal  crags  stand  mute, 

And  listen  while  it  sings. 

0  mighty  range!    Thy  wounds  and  scars 
Thy  weird,  bewildering  forms, 

Attest  thine  everlasting  wars — 
Thy  heritage  of  storms. 

And  still  what  peace!     Serenity 

On  crag  and  deep  abyss — 
O,  may  such  calmness  fall  on  me 

When  Azrael  stoops  to  kiss. 


[36] 


How  like  this  rugged  mountain  trail 

The  path  we  trace  through  life; 
The  stony  steep,  the  sheltered  vale, 

The  storm,  the  stress,  the  strife. 

The  fickle  weather,  foul  and  fair, 

Fierce  heat  and  cooling  shade; 
Mistaken  turnings  here  and  there, 

Bright  vistas  swift  to  fade. 

0  Life,  a  morning,  noon,  and  night, 

Caressing  wind  and  rain, 
A  little  time  to  toil  and  fight— 

A  heritage  of  pain! 

We  know  not  where  thy  paths  began, 

We  know  not  where  they  lead, 
Each  guiding  chart  was  shaped  by  man 

To  serve  his  craft  or  need. 

No  pillared  cloud  by  day,  no  flame 
By  night,  no  beacon  high — 

0  God!     If  Thou  would'st  write  Thy  name 
In  gold  upon  the  sky! 

Yet  though  so  rugged  be  the  way, 

Soon  must  the  journey  end; 
Soon  down  the  western  slope  of  day, 

The  red  sun  will  descend. 

Though  keen,  cold  winds  may  storm  and  sting, 
The  trail  be  rough  and  steep, 

1  know,  ere  long,  the  night  will  bring 

Her  benison  of  sleep. 


[37] 


DAWN 

(On  a  Western  Mountain) 

The  far  horizon's  eastern  rim  is  paling, 
And  one  by  one  night's  jewels  disappear; 

Down  in  the  west  a  pallid  moon  is  sailing, 
And  rosy  shafts  announce  that  dawn  is  near. 

Cold  was  the  sleep,  disturbed  by  fitful  dreaming, 
Rude  was  the  couch  by  yonder  lichened  stones; 

The  night  is  past,  the  day  comes  kindly  beaming, 
Her  fragrant  breath  the  rudest  couch  atones. 

I  stand  on  high  with  amber  skies  communing, 
Kissed  by  the  soft,  unsullied  lips  of  light; 

The  notes  of  birds  my  conscious  soul  attuning — 
Their  songs  like  prayers  waft  through  the  ether 
bright. 

The  plain  is  like  a  book  beneath  me  lying, 

In  smiling  grace  with  unclasped  pages  spread; 

And  wraiths  of  soft  encrimsoned  clouds  are  flying, 
Athwart  the  matchless  glory  o'er  my  head. 

The  day-god  walks  in  all  his  regal  splendor; 

The  sky  hath  donned  its  purple  and  its  gold; 
Unfettered  winds  in  whispers  low  and  tender, 

Tell  me  again  the  tales  so  often  told. 

A  great,  grey  eagle  overhead  is  winging, 
In  airy  spaces  finding  room  to  play; 

On  mightier  wings  my  ransomed  soul  is  springing 
To  grander  heights  in  regions  far  away. 

Welcome  the  day.     Welcome  the  brighter  morrow! 

Welcome  the  light  when  night's  dim  shades  be 

past! 
When,  soul  to  soul,  each  heeds  his  brother's  sorrow, 

And  man  shall  love  his  fellow-man  at  last. 

[38] 


AN  IDYL 

Brilliantly  the  little  brooklet 

Sparkled  in  the  sun, 

And  laughingly  its  liquid  music  played; 

Merrily  the  idle  foam-bells 

Danced,  and  gaily  spun; 

Coquetting  with  the  bending  ferns 

That  graced  the  quiet  glade. 

Thy  blushing  smile  of  joy  and  hope 

And  innocent  affection, 

Seemed  fairer  then  than  any  sun 

That  decked  earth's  canopy; 

And  thy  sweet  words  that  fell  so  coy 

And  proved  my  soul's  delection, 

Like  music  fell  from  thy  red  lips 

And  came  to  answer  me. 


[39] 


THE  BOY 

0  little  babe,  in  tiny  cot, 
Glad  visions  gild  thy  sleep! 

May  happiness  be  e'er  thy  lot, 

God's  angels  thy  soul  keep! 
The  fleeting  smile  upon  thy  lips 

Find  place  forever  there, 

1  kiss  thy  rosy  finger  tips — 
God  bless  my  babe  so  fair! 

Back  from  my  toil  when  day  is  done, 

And  lo!  the  babe  is  gone; 
A  sturdy  lad  the  evening  sun 

Now  kindly  beams  upon. 
Tis  still  my  babe,  though  changed  in  form, 

He  holds  my  heart  strings  yet — 
Lord,  shield  my  boy  in  care  and  storm, 

And  guide  him  through  life's  fret. 

Swift  roll  the  seasons  o'er  my  head, 

The  years  are  gliding  past; 
The  boy  is  gone,  and  in  his  stead, 

A  man  hath  come  at  last. 
A  man  who  kindly  smiles  on  me, 

And  tells  me,  ah!  too  true: 
I  am  not  what  I  used  to  be, 

The  years  have  changed  me,  too. 

O  Matron,  on  whose  once  bright  hair 

December's  snow  falls  fast, 
The  tree  thou  reared  in  love  and  care 

Now  shadeth  us  at  last. 
'Tis  still  our  boy,  he  ever  stands 

To  us,  indeed,  a  friend — 
Son,  lend  us  now  thy  strong,  kind  hands, 

And  lead  us  to  the  end. 

[40] 


"IF  A  MAN  DIE  ...  ?" 

When  Death  shall  come  with  wings  of  night, 
When  trembling  hands  tire  of  the  fray, 

Is  there,  beyond  earth's  toil  and  fight, 
A  fairer  Bourne — a  Regal  Day? 

O  suns  that  swim  in  cosmic  seas! 

Why  should  we  live — why  must  we  die? 
We  ask,  through  all  the  centuries, 

The  questions  of  the  Whence  and  Why. 

O  mourning  winds  that  sweep  the  sea! 

And  yearning  voice  that  haunts  the  shore, 
Shall,  through  the  ages  yet  to  be, 

The  Questions  stand — forevermore? 

For  this  great  Lock  is  there  no  Key? 

Humanity  expectant  waits 
Through  all  the  vast  Eternity; 

And  knocks  at  unresponsive  gates. 

O  ye,  our  cosmic  comrades!    Stars 

Give  back  one  sign — your  lamps  are  lit — 

And  nearer  neighbor,  valiant  Mars — 
Hast  thou  no  message  to  transmit? 

The  mind  of  Humboldt,  and  the  mind 
Of  Shakespeare,  and  of  Socrates, 

Pass  these  to  dust,  with  Homer  blind 
Who  sang  immortal  symphonies? 

Pass  these  to  dust,  or  pass  they  where 
In  distances  unmeasured  swing 

Vast,  unknown  suns,  that  flame  and  flare, 
And  great  worlds  from  their  girdles  fling? 

[41] 


Pass  these  great  souls  to  nothingness, 
Or,  freed  from  earth's  cold  prison  bars, 

Pass  they  to  other  worlds  to  bless, 
And  swell  the  music  of  the  stars? 

Pass  these  through  the  infinity 

Of  space  though  cosmic  oceans  rage, 

To  worlds  we  know  not — worlds  to  be — 
A  never-ending  pilgrimage? 

Silent  the  stars.    They  do  not  heed. 

No  sound  we  hear,  no  signal  see. 
No  flashing  sign  that  we  may  read 

In  all  the  stern  immensity. 

Man's  heaven  of  his  desire  is  born: — 

An  end  to  labor,  lasting  rest. 
He  dreams  of  skies  where  every  dawn 

Smiles  on  fair  islands  of  the  blest — 

Of  valleys  slaked  by  living  wells, 

By  sun,  and  dew,  and  south  wind  kissed; 

And  pleasant  plains  of  asphodels, 
Washed  in  pale  gold  and  amethyst. 

And  from  the  mists  of  primal  morn 
Conceptions  rise  in  varied  hue; 

And  who  shall  praise,  and  who  shall  scorn, 
Or  say  which  is  the  false  and  true? 

When  thou  shalt  bid  the  world  farewell, 
Though  quivering  lips  cold  lips  may  kiss, 

Though  streaming  eyes  of  grief  may  tell, 
Hope's  gaze,  ascendant,  looks  to  this: 

[42] 


On  Everlasting  Heights  the  Goal, 
The  City  on  the  mountain's  brow — 

A  perfect  knowledge  of  the  Whole, 
Of  which  we  see  a  segment  now. 


No  signal  from  the  stellar  sea. 

The  yearning  voice  that  haunts  the  shore 
Still  chants  the  ancient  threnody — 

A  ceaseless,  deep,  "Forevermore." 


[43] 


A  RING 

I  hold  a  ring  within  my  hand, 

With  yellow  gold  a-gleaming; 
And  jewels  grace  the  circle  fair, 

To  aid  me  in  my  scheming; 
Flashing  in  the  bright  moonlight 

Like  dew-drops  on  a  flower; 
Or  stars  that  gem  the  arch  of  night; 

Or  fireflies  in  a  bower. 

I  know  a  maiden,  shy  and  sweet, 

Who  watches  for  me  nightly; 
With  dancing  eyes  like  summer  skies 

That  welcome  me  so  brightly. 
I'll  place  these  jewels  on  her  hand — 

My  memory  on  her  lingers — 
Sapphires  for  the  veins  of  blue; 

And  pearls  to  match  white  fingers. 

A  lady  she  of  high  repute, 

And  gentle  ways  and  learning; 
She  loves  me  more  as  days  pass  o'er, 

By  reason  of  my  yearning; 
And  glad  was  I  when  first  she  deigned 

To  hearken  to  my  pleading; 
And  sad  was  I  when  she  passed  by, 

My  awkward  self  unheeding. 

But  now  the  music  of  her  voice, 

The  largess  of  her  kindness 
Is  mine,  with  all  her  wealth  of  love, 

To  aught  else  I  am  mindless. 
And  this  bright  ring  shall  beauty  gain 

While  near  my  love  it  lingers — 
Sapphires  for  the  veins  of  blue, 

And  pearls  to  match  white  fingers. 

[44] 


FAITH 

A  mixture,  She,  of  ignorance  and  fears; 
Believing  though  She  neither  sees  nor  hears; 
One  grain,  methinks,  of  undiluted  truth, 
Out-weigheth  all  the  faith  of  all  the  years. 


[45] 


ASTRONOMY 

Great  Antidote  for  ignorance  and  fears! 
We  look  to  thee  to  lead  us  to  the  day, 
Before  thy  light  the  darkness  melts  away, 

Thy  ceaseless  labor  Life's  great  pathway  clears. 

The  shackles  fall  as  pass  the  stately  years, 
Thy  gaze  uplifts,  lo!  Vega's  distant  day 
Comes,  captive,  where  thy  mystic  colors  play — 

The  sombre  gloom  of  ages  disappears. 

What  though  the  thrones  of  false  gods  shake  and  fall? 

Though  useless,  hoary,  man-made  creeds  may  fade? 
Calm  reason  knows  no  sorrow,  reck,  or  ruth. 

Thy  touch,  Boon  Science,  liberates  the  thrall, 
Thy  broadening  beam  illumes  the  unknown  shade, 

Patient,  thy  finger  pointeth  to  the  truth. 


[46] 


COMMEMORATION  DAY 

Sleep,  soldiers,  sleep!  the  flag  ye  loved  is  streaming 
In  peace  above  your  couches  'neath  the  pines; 

No  bugle  notes  may  rouse  ye  from  your  dreaming, 
No  swift  alarm  disturb  the  faithful  lines. 

Sleep,  sailors,  sleep!  the  untamed  ocean  surges 
Above  your  lone  and  unmarked  place  of  rest; 

And  chants  her  solemn,  never-ending  dirges, 

While  unappeased  still  heaves  her  ancient  breast. 

Rest,  patriots,  rest!  the  cypress  trees  are  keeping 

A  lonely  vigil  over  your  last  camp, 
Where  soft-shod  night  across  the  swamp  is  creeping, 

Holding  on  high  the  moon's  inconstant  lamp. 

Peace,  North  and  South!  your  heroes'  dust  is  blending 
Where,  clad  in  panoply  of  war,  they  fell. 

The  years  a  kind  forgetfulness  are  lending 

To  hearts  where  once  raged  fires  of  hate  and  hell. 

We  read  the  page  Time's  finger  is  revealing 

As  Memory's  torch  illumes  the  volumed  years; 

And  to  the  chords  of  mournful  music  stealing, 
The  mountain  of  their  sacrifice  appears. 

The  wounds  are  healed  that  once  were  raw  and 
bleeding, 

The  bitterness  hath  vanished  with  the  past, 
And  we  await  the  hour  toward  us  speeding 

When  Death  shall  kindly  sound  the  taps  at  last. 

The  mills  of  fate  pursue  their  ceaseless  grinding — 
Still  at  the  shrine  of  hate  the  legions  die— 

We  know  no  human  cords,  however  binding, 
That  war's  keen  blade  hath  severed  not  the  tie. 

[47] 


Yet  still  this  hope  the  yearning  soul  rejoices: 
That  war  and  its  dread  consequences  cease, 

And,  through  the  gloom,  apocalpytic  voices 
Announce  the  dawning  of  eternal  peace. 


God  of  that  faithful  pilgrim  few 
Who,  in  the  tempest  of  their  tears 

And  blood,  built  greater  than  they  knew — 
In  the  far  mists  of  other  years. 

When  smarting  'neath  a  tyrant's  rod, 
And  bruised  beneath  oppression's  yoke, 

Still,  trusting  Thee,  their  ancient  God, 
The  bondage  that  they  bore  they  broke. 

And  when,  with  passions  loosed,  at  length 
The  house  they  built  was  rent  in  twain, 

Then,  then,  0"  God!  Thou  wer't  our  strength, 
And  succored  these  thy  sons  again. 

Till  o'er  the  weary,  war-worn  land 
The  sun  of  liberty  blazed  forth — 

An  undivided  house  we  stand, 

From  east  to  west,  from  south  to  north. 

At  fearful  price.    We  heed  it  well — 

The  reeking  heaps  of  brave  men  slain — 

The  flaming  hate  of  shot  and  shell — 
The  belching  fires  of  Shiloh's  plain. 

The  grey-haired  mothers  died,  and  wept 
The  children  for  their  absent  sires — 

Fanned  by  the  breath  of  wrath  there  leapt 
The  flames  from  sacrificial  fires. 

[48] 


The  homesteads  ruined  and  decayed, 
Rank  weeds  displaced  the  waving  corn, 

Columbia — stricken  and  dismayed — 
Wept  and  bewailed  her  fair  first-born. 

Today  the  placid  legions  sleep 

On  rugged  heigftt  or  smiling  plain, 

Or  where  the  thundering  surges  sweep 
And  chant  the  requiem  of  the  slain. 

Or  where  the  solemn,  hoary  pines 

Whisper  to  them  of  later  birth : 
The  dust  of  them  that  fell  afflnes 

Beneath  us  with  our  mother  earth. 

Or  where  within  the  dread  stockade, 
Far  from  the  battle's  lurid  hell, 

Untouched  by  hissing  ball  or  blade — 

Fair  Freedom's  price  they  paid  full  well. 

Today  in  unity  we  stand, 

All  mute  the  once  relentless  guns, 

And  face  to  face,  and  hand  in  hand, 
Each  mourns  her  sister's  fallen  sons. 

No  more  for  them  war's  wild  alarm, 
No  more  for  them  the  thunder's  dread, 

Naught  may  disturb  the  holy  calm 
And  requiescence  of  the  dead. 

0  God,  we  know,  the  years  have  taught 
For  what  our  grandsires  paid  the  price; 

What  with  their  blood  our  fathers  bought, 
What  meant  their  great  self-sacrifice. 

[49] 


Far  through  the  mist  of  years  they  gazed, 
Far  through  the  season's  snows  and  heat, 

When  in  the  wilderness  they  blazed 
A  path  to  guide  their  children's  feet. 

Perchance  they  won  a  peace  we  lack, 
Perchance  the  riddle  of  our  fate 

Is  solved  in  Death's  lone  bivouac — 
We  do  not  know.    We  can  but  wait. 

God  of  the  patriot!  by  Thy  hand, 
And  working  of  Thy  mighty  will, 

Our  trembling  walls  were  made  to  stand — 
Thy  patience  with  Thy  people  still! 

God  of  the  pilgrim!  dense  and  grey 
The  mists  of  doubt  rise  like  a  sea 

Around  our  race;  renew  we  pray 

Our  great,  dead  fathers'  faith  in  Thee! 

God  of  the  ages!  hear  us,  hear — 

We  know  none  other  gods  but  Thou — 

Grant  that  in  place  of  sword  and  spear 
We  shape  the  pruning-hook  and  plow. 

Great  Spirit,  lead  us  to  the  day! 

And  this,  O  God,  we  pray  Thee  for: 
Show  unto  us  some  wiser  way 

Than  brutal  arguments  of  war. 

Grant  Thou  that  wisdom's  broadening  ray 
To  us  some  brighter  plan  may  teach — 

Lo!  all  our  wrath  of  yesterday 
Is  but  a  grain  upon  the  beach. 

[50] 


Gone  the  red  hate  of  yesterday, 

And  here,  where  earthly  passions  cease, 
We  by  each  lowly  headstone  lay 

The  flowers  that  stand  for  love  and  peace. 

As  down  the  years  the  lessons  ring 
That  war's  grim  tutelage  hath  taught, 

Grant  from  the  loins  of  earth  may  spring 
A  race  to  scale  the  heights  of  thought. 

Father,  we  thank  Thee  for  that  hour 
When,  unto  them  that  serfdom  bent, 

The  great  Emancipator's  power 

To  lift  the  groaning  millions  went. 

We  thank  Thee,  too,  when  in  that  time 
That  fratricidal  hands  stretched  forth 

To  murder  right,  to  stay  the  crime 
Uprose  the  patriotic  North. 

A  new  day  dawned,  the  darkness  fled 

When  they  poor  Afric's  shackles  broke — 

Grant  other  Lincolns  yet  be  bred 
To  free  us  from  our  moral  yoke. 

As  freedom  sprang  from  out  the  roar 
And  awfulness  of  war's  red  might — 

O  God,  grant  to  us  more  and  more — 
Enfranchise  us  with  love  and  light. 

A  liberty  of  soul  we  ask, 

That  we  may  rise  a  ransomed  throng, 
Each  to  his  well-beloved  task, 

His  labors  lightened  by  his  song. 

[51] 


May  we  our  worldly  systems  scan, 
And  purge  our  laws  of  every  ill, 

Iniquities  within   our  plan 

In  thralldom  hold  the  millions  still. 

Swift  were  our  sires  when  duty  bade, 
And  shall  our  sacrifice  be  less? 

In  script  that  shall  not  dim  nor  fade, 
They  wrote  their  great  unselfishness. 

Full-panoplied  the  hordes  of  greed 
Gigantic  battlements  have  reared 

Within  our  gates;  and  we  concede 

Where  our  great  fathers  would  have  dared. 

Yet  other  slavery  have  we, 

And  brigandage  approved  by  law, 

To  Pharaohs  still  we  bend  the  knee, 
And  fashion  bricks  without  the  straw7. 

These  hold  the  fat  from  Goshen's  fields, 
These  hold  our  liberties  in  pledge, 

This  parasitic  brood  that  wields 
The  lash  of  special  privilege. 

And  Mammon  grins,  his  muzzles  hold 
The  patient  threshers  of  the  corn; 

And  galling  chains  of  guilty  gold 
Oppress  our  children  yet  unborn. 

And  Justice  wrings  her  fettered  hands, 

With  perjury  her  temple  reeks, 
While  ravished  Honor  trembling  stands, 

Pollution  on  her  flaming  cheeks. 

[52] 


Truth  hides  her  nakedness  in  shame, 

And  smites  her  violated  lips; 
Too  feebly  burns  her  altar's  flame, 

Soiled  are  her  shapely  finger-tips. 

Nay!  but  for  gold  men's  souls  suborn, 
And  laws  are  framed  in  secret  guilt — 

Still,  pass  us  not,  O  God,  with  scorn — 
Still  hold  the  temple  we  have  built! 

Give  freedom  in  our  halls  of  state 
From  bickerings  and  party  strife — 

Purge  us  of  jealousy  and  hate — 
The  hate  that  spoils  a  brother's  life. 

When  passions  blind  and  tempests  rise, 
And  falsehood's  wrongs  assault  the  right, 

Let  wisdom's  torch  illume  our  skies — 
We  want  the  truth — we  need  the  light. 

Grant  we  be  ready  to  extend 
A  kindly  hand  to  the  distressed, 

To  raise  them  when  their  shoulders  bend, 
To  bless  our  brothers  and  be  blessed. 

So  that  upon  our  temple's  wall 
No  awful,  mystic  hand  may  trace 

Dread  signs  that  shall  portend  the  fall 
And  dissolution  of  our  race. 

When  Death  with  kindly  touch  and  cold 
Returns  us  to  our  mother  earth, 

Breathe  on  our  dust,  O  God,  and  mold 
A  race  enfranchised  from  its  birth. 

[53] 


An  undivided  house  have  we — 

Let  Love's  white  banners  float  unfurled — 
From  shore  to  shore,  from  sea  to  sea, 

Give  man  an  undivided  world. 


Lo!  the  fulfillment  of  the  dream 

Draws  nearer  with  our  nightly  fires; 

And  through  the  morning's  purple  gleam 
The  mountains  of  our  souls'  desires. 

—May  30,  1900. 


[54] 


ARCADY 

0  magic  film  of  Memory! 

What  pictures  now  are  screened  for  me. 

1  see  again  the  cloud-capped  hills, 
And  hear  once  more  the  laughing  rills, 
With  loving,  misty  gaze,  I  see 

The  mountains  of  my  Arcady. 

The  voices  of  my  Arcady 

With  sweet  insistence  come  to  me. 

'Tis  there  forgiveness  fills  the  breast, 

Tis  there  the  weary  soul  finds  rest, 

If  body  might  with  spirit  be 

My  fires  should  burn  in  Arcady. 

Though    winter's  robe  with  snowy  hem, 
Hides  Shasta's  lofty  diadem, 
Below  his  grey  crags,  bleak  and  cold, 
The  poppy  weaves  her  cloth  of  gold — 

0  shining  peak,  and  wind  so  free, 
Would  I  might  fare  to  Arcady! 

To  listen  when,  untrammeled,  blow 
The  winds  from  everlasting  snow. 
To  watch  the  evening  shadows  creep 
From  mountain  mead  to  summit  steep. 
To  know  the  dawn's  deep  alchemy, 
And  meet  my  soul  in  Arcady. 

There,  through  the  tapestry  of  pines, 

1  see  the  mountain's  stately  lines; 
The  jeweled  meadows,  gold  and  green, 
Hemmed  by  the  river's  silver  sheen. 

A  forest  choir  makes  melody, 
And  all  is  fair  in  Arcady. 

[55] 


Sometime,  O  dawn  wind  blowing  free, 
My  soul  shall,  too,  unfettered  be; 
And  then,  amid  the  asphodels, 
Where  only  calm  contentment  dwells, 
The  waiting  ones  will  welcome  me 
To  the  lotus  land  of  Arcady. 

Sometime,  O  wind  that  wanders  free, 
Thy  secrets  may  be  known  to  me; 
Exulting  stream,  born  of  the  snow, 
Thy  mystic  murmurs  I  may  know — 
When  Death  shall,  with  his  master-key, 
Swing  wide  the  gates  of  Arcady. 


[56] 


SUNSET  LAND 

Fair  land  of  redwood,  pine  and  palm, 

With  skies  serene  and  bland; 
Enchantress  of  the  Sunset  Seas — 

Beloved  Western  Land- 
Would  I  might  shape  my  lips  to  song 

And  tell  in  chords  that  ring 
How  I  love  thee!     But  naught  have  I 

Save  the  desire  to  sing. 

(A  kindly,  generous-hearted  Queen — 

How  beautiful  she  stands! 
Eschscholtzias  deck  her  full,  round  breast, 

And  palm  leaves  fill  her  hands. 
But  words  are  scant,  and  lips  oft  fail 

To  speak,  though  pulses  thrill 
With  warm  desire.    Yet  would  I  sing — 

Though  I  have  naught  but  will.) 

Thus  would  I  sing:    A  pilgrimage 

Through  canyon,  vale  and  wood, 
To  where  in  royal  purple  clad 

A  kingly  mountain  stood — 
A  temple,  reared  for  thought  and  prayer, 

In  Nature's  own  device; 
An  altar,  lifting  to  the  skies, 

For  bloodless  sacrifice. 

A  place  to  find  a  lenitive 

For  pain  of  soul  and  wrong; 
A  place  to  breathe,  a  place  to  strike 

The  subtle  notes  of  song; 

[57] 


A  place  where  rills  of  melody 
Pour  from  the  canyons  dim; 

And  from  the  bending  orchard  trees 
The  meadow-larks's  brief  hymn. 

A  place  to  watch  the  eagle's  flight 

Athwart  the  matchless  sky; 
A  place  where  golden  poppies  grew 

And  bowed  as  we  passed  by; 
A  place  to  feel  the  wine  of  life 

Course  through  the  veins  like  fire; 
Where  feeble  wishes  swell  and  grow 

Into  a  great  desire. 

Not  all  who  made  the  pilgrimage 

Can  gather  now  to  cheer; 
Not  all  who  climbed  the  mountain  then 

Can  come  with  kiss  or  tear; 
For  some  have  scaled  a  Greater  Peak, 

From  us  have  taken  flight; 
Still,  led  by  Memory's  magic  hand, 

All,  all  come  back  tonight. 

With  Memory's  eyes  we  see  them  now, 

We  clasp  each  kindly  hand, 
And  once  again  we  wander  through 

The  vales  of  Sunset  Land. 
And  once  again  we  linger  as 

We  lingered  long  ago, 
Where  in  the  shadows  cool  and  deep, 

The  manzanitas  grow. 

We  see  the  dancing  sunbeams  play 
Where  droning  pinetrees  fling 

Their  shadows  on  the  rocky  walls 
Where  weird  madronos  cling; 

[58] 


And  clad  in  garb  of  living  green, 
Clasped  to  the  breast  of  earth, 

Behold  the  pregnant  vine  that  bears 
The  germ  of  song  and  mirth. 

And  lo!  a  greater  glory  still — 

Of  strength  the  nation's  source — 
Unfolding  like  a  scroll  illumed, 

The  world's  most  potent  force; 
League  after  league  a  golden  sea 

The  gladdened  eye  doth  greet — 
From  margin  unto  margin  waves 

The  wheat,  the  wheat,  the  wheat! 

0  favored  land — O  Sunset  Land! 
With  milk  and  honey  blest, 

What  wealth  is  thine  of  corn  and  wine, 

Thou  Goddess  of  the  West! 
My  head  upon  thy  kindly  lap, 

My  couch  beneath  thy  trees, 

1  weigh  against  the  city's  fret 
The  joy  of  hours  like  these. 

On  Joaquin's  panoramic  plain 

A  wondrous  glamour  lies, 
Like  the  warm,  love-engendered  light, 

Deep  in  a  sweetheart's  eyes. 
The  swelling  anthems  of  the  pines 

Like  benedictions  fall — 
Great  organ  chords  that  bind  and  hold 

The  soul  in  tender  thrall. 

Lo,  in  the  east,  piled  range  on  range, 

The  great  Sierras  rise; 
Lifting  on  high  their  hoary  heads, 

Communing  with  the  skies; 

[59] 


And,  gazing  on  the  great  white  peaks, 

Their  solemn  calm  and  rest, 
What  yearnings,  strange,  and  sad,  and  deep, 

Disturb  the  conscious  breast. 

We  yearn,  perchance,  for  one  clear  call 

When,  at  the  signal — Cease — 
The  body  is  redeemed  from  pain, 

The  soul  wins  lasting  peace; 
Or  with  dark  shadows  of  regret 

And  grief  the  heart  is  stirred, 
To  know  the  picture  we  have  limned 

Is  out  of  line  and  blurred. 

O  careless  choice  of  fading  tints 

That  make  Life's  colors  run, 
And  foolish  quest  of  gold  or  gaud 

To  cast  away  when  won! 
Of  what  avail  that  man  to  place, 

To  fame,  or  gold  should  bend? 
Six  feet  by  three,  and  six  feet  deep, 

Content  him  in  the  end. 

Ah!  take  thy  paints  and  canvas  where 

The  cool  winds  kiss  the  sod, 
In  Nature's  grand  cathedral  aisles 

So  full  of  peace  and  God; 
And,  faithful  to  thy  sacred  trust, 

Until  Life's  tale  is  told, 
Paint  its  great  picture  clear  and  true, 

In  colors  that  shall  hold. 

Paint  in  warm  lights,  clear,  bold  and  grand, 

The  great  hope  that  is  born 
In  the  bright  gold  of  sunset  skies — 

The  promise  of  the  dawn. 

[60] 


Paint  out  the  false  and  crooked  lines 

Without  regret  or  rue — 
Paint  out  the  dark  and  narrow  creeds — 

Paint  in  the  broad  and  true. 

Take  courage,  thou  of  fainting  heart, 

Crouched  in  thy  narrow  cell, 
And  purge  thyself  of  ancient  dread — 

The  dread  of  death  and  hell; 
Look  up  and  lift  thy  voice  in  song, 

When  sombre  doubt  draws  near — 
There  is  no  hell  but  memory; 

There  is  no  death  but  fear. 

And  though  some  say: — The  past  is  dead 

With  all  it  takes  and  gives — 
Be  sure  that  when  the  day  is  done 

'Tis  all  at  last  that  lives; 
And  in  thy  last,  lone  bivouac — 

The  camp  that  thou  shalt  keep — 
Thy  heaven  shall  be  what  thou  hast  made- 

Thy  sowing  thou  shalt  reap. 

Enchantress  of  the  West,  farewell! 

Soft-sandaled  night  descends — 
Her  star-bejeweled,  velvet  robe, 

With  day's  bright  raiment  blends; 
And  bay,  and  beach,  and  headland  bold 

Fade  in  the  waning  light; 
Fair  goddess  of  the  Sunset  Sea, 

Loved  Westernland,  goodnight! 


[61] 


WAR 

Blind  as  to  what  they  fight  each  other  for, 

To  rouse  the  workers  to  a  mood  for  war 

Their  leaders  shout  revenge.    Old  feuds  are  stirred, 

And  wounds,  long-healed,  are  opened  with  a  word. 

War-lords,  to  gain  in  history  half  a  page, 

Half  of  a  world  in  bloody  strife  engage. 

A  burst  of  martial  music  on  the  air, 
Sad  women  hoeing  in  the  fields  with  bare 
And  bleeding  feet.    The  fathers,  brothers,  sons, 
All  gone  to  feed  mad  rulers'  hungry  guns — 
A  lord  of  war  rides  on  an  armored  train, 
A  heap  of  dead  lies  rotting  in  the  rain. 

A  silken  banner  on  the  breeze  is  borne, 
And  little  children  weep,  and  widows  mourn. 
The  kindly  earth  has  lost  her  generous  yield, 
Her  yellow  grain  lies  rotting  in  the  field. 
Boasts  of  great  prowess  in  the  years  gone  by — 
A  starving  baby's  weak  and  wailing  cry. 

O  Power  that  rules  the  universe!  bend  down 
And  purge  Thine  earth  of  sceptre  and  of  crown. 
Of  them  that  claim  to  rule  by  right  divine — 
Descendants  of  a  predatory  line — 
O  Power,  bend  down,  and  from  Thy  bounty  give 
A  tithe  of  wisdom  that  Thy  people  live! 

O  Peace,  descend  from  thy  calm  mountain  height, 
From   thy   great   pines,   and   from   thy   snow-fields 
white, 

[62] 


From  flower-strewn  groves  where  feathered  chor 
isters 

With  thine  own  songs  freight  every  breeze  that  stirs, 
And  scatter  wide,  with  thy  benignant  hands, 
Thy  virtues  over  all  the  war-torn  lands  1 

O  People — ye  on  whom  the  burden  falls — 
Emblazon  now  upon  your  memory's  walls 
The  names  of  them  who,  careless  of  the  blame, 
Flung  forth  the  brand  that  set  a  world  aflame. 
From  sea  to  farther  sea,  from  shore  to  shore, 
The  bitter  shame  be  on  them  evermore! 

—August  5,  1914. 


[63] 


A  BOY  AND  A  GIRL 
THE  GIRL 

I  sat  beside  your  window 

And  I  looked  far  out  to  sea; 
Far,  far  beyond  the  Golden  Gate, 

Where  white-winged  galleons  be; 
Beyond  the  flaming  sunset 

Where  the  swift  tides  come  and  go, 
And  thundering  surges  break  and  fall 

In  emerald  and  snow. 

I  framed  a  wish  that  on  you  twain 

The  gods  might  ever  smile; 
That  Fortune — fickle  though  she  be — 

Be  with  you  all  the  while; 
That  your  page  in  Life's  great  volume 

Be  written  clear  and  true — 
From  a  full  heart's  overflowing 

I  framed  the  wish  for  you. 

THE  BOY 
May  Youth — 0  Life's  bright  blossom  timel- 

Make  not  his  years  too  brief, 
May  summer's  skies  be  all  undimmed 

By  lowering  clouds  of  grief. 
May  Memory's  pictures  all  be  fair, 

No  tempest  round  you  roar, 
And  only  peace  and  goodness  come 

And  pass  the  open  door. 

But  should  the  storm  clouds  gather, 
And  should  thorns  the  pathway  strew, 

Remember — She — the  woman's  share 
Of  burden  bears  with  you. 

[64] 


And  may  the  little  love-god, 

With  the  sunshine  on  his  brow, 

Make  you,  through  all  the  future  years, 
Just  sweethearts  then  as  now. 

When  the  sun  in  Life's  calm  evening 

The  lengthening  shadow  flings, 
May  all  past  days  be  beautiful 

As  pearls  on  silver  strings. 
And  when,  in  that  calm  sunset, 

All  the  years  pass  in  review, 
Think  kindly  of  the  vanished  hand 

That  penned  the  wish  for  you. 


[65] 


UNANSWERED 

The  dying  generation  lay 

Stretched  on  his  father's  bed; 

He  called  to  him  his  only  son, 
And  to  the  stripling  said: 

"My  son,  these  many  years  I  strove 
To  smooth  Life's  rugged  way; 

To  you  I  pass  my  burden  now — 
Be  careful,  lad,  I  pray! 

My  shoulders  now  are  bent  and  old, 
But  thine  be  young  and  strong; 

So  do  thy  best,  dear  boy  of  mine, 
While  singing  Life's  great  song. 

Curb  all  thy  baser  passions,  boy, 
Be  upright,  brave,  and  true; 

And  glad  remembrances  thy  mind 
In  age  shall  bring  to  you. 

Life  hath  abundance  now  to  fill 

Her  ever  hungry  maw; 
But  in  the  dusty  years  of  old 

Some  emptiness  she  saw. 

The  problem  of  enough  she  learned 

With  aid  by  Science  lent; 
But  one  great  riddle  thou  must  read — 

A  just  apportionment. 

I  have  no  time  to  tell  in  words 

Such  things  as  thou  should'st  know; 

But  wisdom  garnered  by  my  sires 
The  written  records  show. 


Dear  lad,  my  strength  is  waning  fast — " 
He  smiled — a  weary  smile — 

"Just  draw  my  mantle  round  my  head, 
And  let  me  sleep  a  while." 

"But  father,"  cried  the  boy,  "Pray  tell 

Life's  ultimate — the  Goal — 
Thy  body  I  will  wash  and  hide, 

Where  goeth  now  thy  soul?" 

Too  late!  the  pale  old  lips  were  still; 

In  vain  the  stripling  cried — 
The  old,  grey  generation  stretched 

His  weary  limbs  and  died. 


[67] 


WHERE  FRIENDS  KEEP  WATCH 

When  I  shall  close  mine  eyes  for  final  sleeping, 

And  all  of  earth  is  past, 

When  Azrael,  with  his  mighty  wings,  comes  sweep 
ing, 

And  beckons  me  at  last — 

Then  would  I  know  the  country  of  my  yearning — 
Where  friends  keep  watch  for  me — 

And  I  would  see  the  kindly  campfires  burning 
Beneath  some  forest  tree. 

Unsatisfied  by  Christian  myths  and  stories, 

When  my  earth  journey  ends, 
My  soul  would  find,  amid  the  mountain  glories, 

The  meeting  place  of  friends. 

And  when,  beneath  the  Morning's  shining  lances, 

I  pass  into  that  land, 
Who  shall  be  first  to  come,  with  loving  glances, 

And  take  me  by  the  hand? 

Shall  it  be  thou,  0  saintly-souled  young  mother, 

Set  free  at  last  from  care — 
Shall  it  be  thou,  O  restless,  roving  brother, 

With  whom  I  learned  a  prayer? 

Shall  it  be  thou,  old  friend,  whose  locks  were  hoary, 

Whom  I  have  sorely  missed — 
To  welcome  me  amid  the  mountain's  glory 

Of  gold  and  amethyst? 

All  shall  be  there  amid  that  mountain  splendor, 

When  I  shall  cease  to  roam; 
And  all  will  come  with  glances,  loving,  tender, 

To  bid  me  welcome  home. 

[68] 


Unwearied  in  that  mountain  land  we'll  wander, 

Or,  by  the  campfire's  glow, 

We'll  watch  great  peaks  that  seem  to  stand  and  pon 
der, 

Robed  in  eternal  snow. 

In  some  green  vale  deep  in  the  mountain's  glory, 

Lulled  by  the  singing  streams, 
We'll  start  anew  the  interrupted  story, 

And  tell  again  our  dreams. 


[69] 


OVERDUE. 


LD  21-100m-8,'34 


YB  1201 


348856 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


